


Welcome To My Old Hood

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 16:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyson Rios drags Elliot Salem back to Brooklyn to meet his parents. Takes place in the Tea and Crumpets universe. Well during that leave trip anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_ Welcome To My Old Hood _ **

**_Chapter One_ **

**_Parental Bliss_ **

 

 

_[](http://s1339.photobucket.com/user/chairtoboleek/media/ROTHALION-HP/BOE/brooklynbridge1.jpg.html)_

“You sure this is a good idea, Rios?” Salem asked as the pair strolled around a convenience store on the off ramp of I-95 just outside of Dale City Virginia. It was probably the thousandth time he’d asked it in six hundred miles.

“I think it’s a great idea, Elliot. Their only my parents. That all you want? Just the Rasinettes and the beer. We still have a good two hundred plus miles, and I’m driving straight through; both tanks are topped off. Really wish you wouldn’t drink in the truck though.”

“Break a rule once in a while would you, Tyse. You’re drivin’; I’m ridin’ what’s the harm. I won’t tip in intersections, and yea the Rasinettes are good. You’re buying right?”

“Gimme that shit.”

Elliot slid his choices, two large boxes of Rasinettes and a six pack of Budweiser in the bottle across the counter toward the register. The clerk sighed, and eyed the pair warily.

“Problem?” Rios asked.

“Seriously man you gonna play me like that?”

“Play you like what exactly?”

“Read the sign. Twenty-one years of age to buy beer.”

Rios furrowed his brow at the scrawny surf punk attired clerk, and pulled out his wallet.

“Twenty-eight work for you…,” he leaned in a bit closer to read the kid’s crooked name tag, “Dougie?”

“Not you. You’re obviously old. That one.”

“What gave it away all a his gray hairs?” Salem quipped while dodging Rios’ smack. “Wait which one?”

Salem followed the line of Douggie’s index finger which pointed at his chest, then looked around behind him as if the kid was pointing to somebody else.

“Me?”

“He can’t buy your booze.”

“Booze!”

“You wanna see his I.D.?” Rios asked.

“Policy brah.”

“Policy brah? Is it policy to address your customers as brah, brah? ”

“’Sides we _ain’t_ your brahs shit for brains. Now ring up my beer.”

“No plastic, no beer. Policy states that all customers present during the purchase of Alcohol must present I.D.”

“Salem go wait in the truck.”

“What!”

“Won’t work I already saw him.”

“You listen to me you skinny little fuck. I’ve served three years in the Army that protects you little fuckers with salt water logged brains; so you sell us that beer right the fuck now, or I’ll come over that fuckin’ counter, and rip you a new asshole; you sanctimonious suck ass little bitch.”

“I have a panic button.”

“Salem forget it. We can go down the road.”

“No! Panic button? I’ll tear that bitch out, and cram up the new asshole I just ripped him.”

“My buddy’s old enough, ring the stuff up.”

“Then have your buddy show me some I.D., brah.”

“Call him brah again and…”

“Salem does the term solitary confinement mean anything to you? Give him your I.D.”

“Fucker. Here.”

He flipped open the small bi-fold wallet, and held the I.D. out just inches from Dougie’s face.

“What kinda I.D.’s that?”

“The kind that says I’m twenty-one, kind.”

“Military I.D.; he doesn’t have a driver’s license yet. Sorta been outta country killing people for the last few years. See, there, there’s his birthday. March seventeenth 1972.”

“Take it out.”

Rios snatched the wallet from Elliot, and began working the green card free. While he was doing that Salem opened one of the six beer bottles, and started to drink it. Both Rios and Dougie glared at him.

“For my troubles. Oops, and this one, and this one, and…”

“Kermit stand down now you dumb fucker.”

“And this one, and…”

In the time it took Dougie to scrutinize the card Salem had opened all six bottles, and chugged a good amount from each one before pressing the caps back on, and sticking them back in the holder. Then he leaned across the counter as close to Dougie as he could get, and let loose with a long alcohol laden belch.

“Still not gonna sell ‘em to me brah? They’re used now.”

Dougie handed the card back to Rios, and disgustedly started to ring up their purchases. Meanwhile Elliot sidled away after re-claiming his wallet, and made for the rack of single beers along the rear of the store wall.

“What’s he doin’ now B… sir.”

“Salem let’s go.” Rios hollered as he took his change from the clerk. “No clue; see you round.”

Salem joined him at the door, and as he pushed through backwards he held his hands up as if surrendering.

“Good luck up holding policy, brah, and have a shit life.”

The pair piled back into the truck, and Rios started it up. He looked curiously over at Salem who was wiggling around as though he is ass was itching.

“What are you doing?”

“Balls are freezing; hurry up, and lose this dump.” Salem moaned as Rios pulled the big Ford out onto the highway.

“You didn’t!”

“Course I did. A whole six pack of Bud and some Spicy Chicharrones.” Salem sang out proudly.

“Chicharrones! You even know what the fuck they are?”

“Si senior, fried pork rinds. I love ‘em. Neighbor used to make them fresh, I could live on that shit. No, I did live on that shit. Beer?” He corrected himself pulling the final can of the six pack out of his pants, and holding it out toward Rios. The bigger man studied it warily.

“Hold that shit down you dip shit. And no, I’m driving.”

“Come on Tyse, fuck policy have a beer. See no pubes, or nothin’. It’s no worse than the ones I hid down our shitter that time, and you drank those.”

“Fine, but not too many, I have no desire to ever see the inside of a cell again, and if we get sent up Top’ll kill us if we can’t get out. We’d be AWOL.”

“Ehh, cheers! AWOL schmay-wol, here’s to us.” He held his bottle up toward Rios’, and they clinked them together. “ Ok, 95 north to your old hood… Chicharrones or Rasinettes?”

Fifteen minutes later Salem stopped crunching away on his Chicharrones, and rolled the top of the cellophane bag closed.

“So your dad’s name is Ty what again? Or should I stick to sir?”

Rios chuckled, “Tynan.”

“Right, and you’re Tyson. Is that like a junior thing?”

“Nope; Tyson, Salem, means the son of Ty.”

“Oh. So he’s Mexican?”

“Well yes and no. My grandfather was from Spain. A Basque…”

“Oh like Tyannikov’s Dabi?”

Rios scowled at the reference. Anything Tyannikov pissed him off.

“Yea like that. Anyway his name was Guxti Salcedo…”

“Gux what!”

“Guxti! Can you at least try and force yourself to listen patiently.”

“Not one a my virtues Tyse, but go on continue.”

“Means, or so we think, little. Basque is a pretty individualized language. It was a joke his father played, because he was a huge baby. Guess my great grandmother didn’t survive the birth. Any way so the tale goes. Guxti supposedly means little, and Basque well there’s nothing else like it anywhere in the world language wise.”

“Dabi’s teaching me Basque it’s fascinating. Says I’m a quick study. Good fighters, the Basque. Tough as nails.”

“Yea, well that was his problem. So he gets run out of Spain way back forever ago, and ends up in Mexico. But, his reputation followed him. So he crosses into the states, makes his way to New York in the midst of booming skyscraper construction, and takes a job as a roofer. He changes his name to Tyler Rios…”

“Jesus Christ, and fuck my twice you really have a sorted past, Tyse. Fuck.”

“Do you really need to be to sacrilegious Elliot?”

“I know where I’m ending up so I don’t much care. I mean check this shit out.” Salem held out his right arm so that Rios could see his new dragon and flames tattoo. “These killer flame tats will fit right the fuck in. Ok continue.”

“So he wanted to start a new life, but still keep a tie to Spain, right? So he’s Tyler, which is a roofer his new job in his clean life, and Salcedo means Willow tree, so Willows grow along the water; rivers and stuff so since he felt like he was reborn when he crossed the Rio Grande he picked Rios, which means river. Tyler Rios. Then, his son, my dad is  Guxti Tynan, and I’m Tyson Guxti.”

“Why wasn’t your dad, Tyson?”

“No clue. Oh yea, because my grandmother was Irish, and my dad came out all dark skinned, and Tynan means dark. So I’m dark, and Tyson Rios.”

“So your old man’s a fat ass like you?”

Rios laughed aloud. He knew Elliot well enough by now to know that the query had two reasons. One was recon. He wanted to know if he was going to need to face off with another man twice his side that was a ‘parental figure’, and secondly he wanted razz Tyson about being some sort of odd genetic throwback to his grandfather size wise.

“Nope more like about your size, Kermit, but he’s a bad ass. The Basque blood I guess, and he can kick ass. Trust me.”

“Hmm, Tyson Rios. That’s all cool. Really Tyse I mean that.” Salem muttered quietly. While he held a beer bottle out of the truck’s win to completely drain and remnents of the liquid. Then, after closing the window he opened another, and settled back into the comfortable leather seat leaning against the door. “I mean what the fuck’s with my name. Tyannikov says it’s some shit about Elliot is from Elijah, and that means the lord is my god. Don’t think god knows my skinny little ass exists, and if he does he damn sure has never had anything good planned for it; sorry imaginary fucker. And Salem, that’s an even better pile a bullshit. At peace, peaceful one… fuck me twice what a bunch of crap. More like Elliot Nicholas Salem, son of the meth lab bastard on the edge of the swamp. Wanna another beer?”

Rios looked over at the younger man who’s jovial mood of earlier was crashing. He didn’t want Elliot to slip into a funk so he agreed to the beer.

“Yea man, shit what’s a fucking road trip for two best friends without tipping a few cold ones along the way. Hit me, and if we run dry we’ll just hit an exit. Just this time you can stay with the truck.”

“Bottle or…”

“Can; I ain’t swapping spit with you anymore than necessary for emergency CPR.”

To his great relief Salem busted up into a roiling laugh, and fetched the needed beer.

 

 

 

 


	2. Signs of Life

__

_ Chapter Two _

_ Signs of Life _

 

Two beers later Salem curled up against the door of the truck wrapped in Rios’ jacket, and quickly fell into a sound asleep. Tyson looked over at the smaller man and smiled. He’d come a long way since first arriving in Somalia. It was only a start though, Rios knew. He’d had enough leadership training and lessons in how to read men, to know that Salem was a very wounded young man. Part of him wanted to ignore the fact, and not have to deal with Salem’s painful past. Rios wasn’t a callous man, but in the brutal game of war they all played at men died, and the Ranger knew that getting too close would bring nothing but pain. He shook his head, downed the last of his beer, and shoved the empty into the trash bag.

“Too late for that though you skinny little fucker. I’m into your ass so damned deep I can’t see the light of day, and that fucker Tyannikov has sold me down the river by telling you it’s the way men like us should be. Shit Salem, what the fuck am I gonna do with you for the rest of our natural lives boy?”

The boy was an enigma. On the one hand he was brutal, a natural killer seemingly with complete disregard for the enemy. Come at him, and he will tear you to pieces with a smile on his boyish face, and then sit to dinner as though it was the most natural thing in the world to gut a man from groin to chin. Conversely, he was sensitive to a fault about certain things. He hated when men judged him by his size. He dreaded when Top chose teams for fear that he’d be over looked or worse chosen last. He had hellish nightmares, most not pertaining to his military actions, but instead concerning his childhood. He was insecure beyond the norm for a man of his skill and courage. Rios could name dozens of occasions when the boy had spun out of control over the merest slight, and that loss of control, caused by his persistent insecurity only added to the confusion the team often felt about him.

He looked over at the sleeping man and sighed. Dragging him to Gabe’s had been bad enough, and now he was forcing him to meet his parents. As far as the team could tell Salem had no real sense of family. He’d allowed that his mother abandoned him and his father when he was but days old, and that his father was a useless criminal, and that the state had him bounced from foster home to orphanage, and back home again all of his life. That degree of insecurity couldn’t bode well for a child, especially a child with the inherent traits that Elliot seemed to possess. It was no wonder the man feared rejection to the degree that he did. How would he react to a loving family? How would he react to the love that Rios knew his parents would so readily and freely offer him? It would be a different sort of care and compassion than what Gabe and Dorrie provided. You can, he knew, drag a horse to water, but getting it to drink was an entirely different operation.

Rios hadn’t needed to try. The boy just latched onto him like a drowning rat clinging to a bit of flotsam. If anything, he’d done his damnedest to drive him away, but the harder he tried the tighter Elliot had clung to him. Rios turned the radio up a bit and tucked the jacket farther up over Salem’s shoulder. The man coughed lightly, moaned, and shrugged off Rios’ touch before settling right back down.

Tyannikov, now the huge Russian scared him. Tyannikov scared him to death. Tyannikov hadn’t needed to try either. Rios growled low in throat as the memory of the night Tyannikov broke Elliot’s arm flashed through his memory. Not even the pain of that, and the brutal pounding he’d taken from the Russian and his team had been enough to warn Salem off. If anything it bound the unlikely pair that much tighter. Salem craved respect and belonging, and the damned Russian was more than willing to provide both. Rios’ problem was that Elliot was as gullible as they came when it came round to picking his friends. It was all or nothing for the man, and he feared that where he only offered so much of his heart Tyannikov, in turn, seemed more than willing to offer and provide Elliot with all he craved. That being the case, Rios swore to never allow that situation to come to its fruition. Rios sighed once again and looked over at his sleeping partner. There was no real way to predict the future so instead he would simply have to deal with any fallout as it hit. Experience had taught the big man that it was ultimately futile to project. The plot would play out no matter his preparations. The key was being adaptable and able enough to manage whatever transpired, and come out of that tunnel alive.

Salem awoke, and without moving he stared out of the truck window at the passing landscape. It seemed industrial, crowded and dirty. He’d been dragged from the swamps and rural areas of southern Louisiana, to Fort Benning, and then via a short tour in some hell hole in Asia straight to Sarajevo. None of those places, or Somalia had the scale of what he was now witnessing. Those countries, or the parts that he’d seen, had been crowded, but this, this was a mess. This was a landscape of human occupation not just sprawling outward, but upwards as well. For the first time in his life Salem felt glad that he’d spent his childhood in a swamp on the ass end of hell in Louisiana, and not in a place like this.

He yawned, stretched and threw Rios’ jacket into the backseat of the truck. He didn’t want to disappoint Tyson but he had the feeling that New York City and Brooklynn were not going to be on his list of places to re-visit.

“That sign said Brooklynn. You see it?”

“Yup. Welcome back. About a half an hour out now.”

“Sun’s comin’ up. Fuck it’s a mess out there.”

“Yea, but once you learn your way around it’s a piece a cake though.”

“Lotta people.”

“Yea a lot of people, but you’re not here to meet all of them Elliot just my family.”

“Fuck me twice Tyse I doubt you can find them in this mess. You drink your soda? I’m thirsty as fuck. Too long cooped up in the truck with the A.C.”

“Here, but it’s RC.”

“Don’t care.”

“See look over there. That’s Manhattan. We’ll go downtown maybe the day after tomorrow. We’ll walk across the Brooklynn Bridge and see the sites. Head to Little Italy and grab a pie then…”

“Walk? You want to walk to, walk in that mess. I’d rather low crawl through three feet of mud and Concertina Wire. Fuck the lot a that, Tyse. It’s crazy over there. It’s like, like I don’t have the words bro. No wonder you’re such a fucking prick. You had to deal with this insane shit growing up, fuck. Gimme Alligators, Water Moccasins and Meth cookers any day over this shit.”

Rios laughed and grasped Elliot’s shoulder in his huge hand.

“You’ll be with me Salem. It’ll be fine. Fuck think of it like this. Sure it’s huge. Sure there’ll be thousands of people, but you and me only have to manage what’s in our sight line. Right? Only what’s right in our scopes.”

“Right, in our scopes. You call yourself a good son, and you let your mom languish in this hell hole. Fuck Tyse, really dude, save the poor woman. God, RC sucks Water Buffalo boogers.”

Rios busted up into laughter. Salem did that to him. Every now and again the man would drop a line from out of lord knew where, and it would crack Rios’ façade to pieces. It was times like that when Rios said a quick prayer that he’d never lose the smaller man.

“Water Buffalo boogers! Christ Elliot, where in the fuck do you come up with this shit?”

“Bro, the worst, the absolute worst. Me and Tyannikov,” he paused and held up his hands in submission, “I know, I know Tyannikov, but just hear me out, ok Tyse. Me and my Old Bear we’re on guard duty one night at the boat launch, and this fucking Water Buffalo comes to the river to drink. He drinks maybe four fucking thousand gallons of water, stands back up, shakes his Water Buffalo head and snorts and all this Water Buffalo snot flies out and into the water. Bro, it was sick. It was so bad I swear I fucking had to swallow my own vomit or hose down Sily’s, well Tyannikov’s feet.”

Rios clicked on the right turn signal to get into the lane he needed to exit and looked over at Salem, who had apparently forgotten about just how cluttered New York City was. Before he could respond Salem continued the story.

“So, I’m like ‘Old Bear, that’s like what, meat enough until this shit op is over?’ And he’s like ‘Barsukh rifle shot will be heard for miles.’”

“Just like that?”

“Sure, ‘Barsukh, rifle shot…’ fuck you. So I just grin, and pull out my hand dandy silencer. And he’s like ‘Where’d you get that from?’ So I smile, and screw it on. We decide where the big bastard’s heart is, and I take the shot. Big booger snorting fucker drops like a rock. Where the fuck did you think all a that jerky, and smoked meat was coming from, Tyse. Wasn’t Army rations, Bro. It was the grand poobah of snort slinging Water Buffalos. We field stripped that fucker, fed the rest to the crocs, and smoked it in camp. Funny thing is no one ever asked where it came from. We almost there? I gotta piss.”

Twenty minutes later Salem stood outside of the elevator, duffle bag slung over his right shoulder, shuffling his sneakered feet, and staring down at the two inch by two inch black and white tiled floor beneath him. It was old, battered and dingy. The white now more of a sad sallow yellow, and the black faded nearly to gray. It made him feel anxious, but he couldn’t figure out exactly why. Along the grimy walls, where people couldn’t tread, the tile was far cleaner nearly maintaining its original color. He groaned for the third time as Rios cursed under his breath, and smashed the call button for the fifth time with his fat right index finger.

“Guess it’s broken again. It happens. Let’s go, we’ll take the stairs.”

“Eight floors, seriously?”

“My mom can do it so clamp it Kermit, and just follow me.”

“My mom can fucking do it. Fucking clamp it Kermit, why don’t you fucking clamp it you fat fuck. Only thing I’m fucking concerned about clamping right now is my fucking bladder. Clamp it Kermit, clamp this you fucking…”

Rios stopped short as he turned on the third landing, and Salem taking the worn steps two at a time slammed into him, backed down a step, and stared up at the bigger man from two risers down.

“Look Salem, these are my folks.” Rios began tersely, poking Elliot’s heaving chest with his left index finger in meter with his admonition, “I need you to watch the language, and try for once in your miserable, manner-less, rule-less life, try and have just a little couth. Copy me?”

Salem glared up at him his hazel eyes blazing furiously. What the hell, he thought, what the fucking hell? He pushed his bladder discomfort aside, and after taking a quick look back down toward the lobby, and gauging the possibility of escaping Rios, he snapped back around, and faced the big man.

“You don’t fucking trust me! You don’t fucking trust me to act right with your folks. You sorry fat mother fucker. You drag me all the way here, and now, now this. You know what Rios fuck you. I’m out a here. I’ll see you back in Djibouti. Fuck all a this shit. Have some couth. Why, why Rios, Tyse, why for once in your tact-less, overbearing life why can’t you just trust me? Have I ever let you down Rios? Have I? Have I ever done anything to even remotely hurt you, you sorry piece a shit. But you, it’s always you with your fucking heavy fucking hand. See you when you get back. Give your parents my regards and my apology. Fuck me twice, I am so fucking tired of you stepping on my shit. See that fucking floor, Rios? I feel like that, Rios. All stained, and worn out, and old. I don’t fucking want to be a tile in the middle of the shit anymore Rios. I want to be, just for once, one of the ones along the fucking wall where people can’t walk all over me. Fuck you. I…”

“Enough, Salem!” Rios commanded.

Salem shut up. He looked up at Rios tears brimming in his eyes. He only wanted the man to have some faith in him, not just sometimes, but all of the time. He sniffled and swiped his shirt sleeve across his face. Leave? He had to be crazy. That would mean finding a cab, finding an airport, buying a ticket back to Georgia, and figuring out how to grab a hop out of country and home to Somalia. He’d be lucky to get as far as the cab, and he knew that Rios knew it. Rios had to know he was nervous. He knew too that when he was on edge he rambled so why the heavy hand to make it that much worse? Elliot sighed, squeezed his eyes shut, and raised his hands in surrender.

“Look Tyse,” he began quietly his voice now calm and measured, “I know ok, I know how to be polite. I know that you know I do. You told me as much down at Gabe’s. Look, I get it. I know you and your old man are not a hundred percent. So I know you’re nervous too, so just, just don’t play this heavy handed shit with me like you do. Please, just let me be me now and again and I won’t let you down. I promise.”

It was Rios’ turn to be stunned. Elliot could read a man, but Rios hadn’t expected him to read him so readily. He was absolutely correct. Visiting his father always ratcheted up his anxiety in a way not even the heat of a fire fight could. It was part guilt and part anger, but the feelings, even after years of reconciliation, remained so tangled up that the big man had difficulty weeding through them.

“Now please, I really do have to piss like a racehorse Tyse.”

Tyson turned, and continued up the dim stairwell content that the altercation had blown itself out without Salem leaving. He was an extraordinarily competent man, but Rios shuddered at the idea of the younger man running off alone, hitting bars until he was drunk, and then trying to find a place to stay. Worse yet, Rios thought, trying to get a flight back south. At the heavy fire door to the eighth floor he paused took a deep calming breath, and pushed through it with Elliot in tow.

“They’re in 816, left and down on the corner, come on.”

Salem nodded, reached out, and squeezed Tyson’s thick shoulder.

“I got your six in this man, no worries ok.”

“Roger that, and if we survive this maybe we can go look yours up one day.”

“Not a fucking chance in hell, Rios. So don’t even get that idea in your fat skull. I’d rather take a bullet in the gut or drink Water Buffalo snot or better yet both.”

“Ok, Ellie, ok. Let’s just roll then.”

Rios rang the newish looking doorbell attached to the stained beige wall to the right of the black marred door. A crackly female voice chirped out of the little speaker.

“Who is it?”

“Me, mom.” Rios answered the little box leaning down and forward to get closer which looked ridiculous and made Elliot snicker.

“Can it, Salem!”

“Oh thank god.” The little box squawked out, as the door clicked in two places. Then, “What did you say?”

Rios ignored the question, glared over at Elliot, then reached out, and turned the knob as the rattle of his mother unhooking chains on the other side filled the air.

“Just a minute honey. One more chain.” Her voice warned through the thick partition. “Ok, go ahead.”

Rios turned the gray aluminum knob, and pushed the door open. His mother immediately dragged him into a fierce embrace, and to Salem’s dismay smothered the somewhat unwilling man with kisses. Fearing that his own fate would be similar, he stepped back into the middle of the hallway to give the pair some space.

Rios finally wormed free, and held his mother at arm’s length.

“And you, you get in here. Oh Tyson shame on you! He’s not so small. Come here, come here Elliot, and let me see you. Tyson, take the man’s bag, have some manners. Elliot come on now the air conditioning is escaping.”

Elliot shuffled in, and allowed Tyson to take his duffle noting that Rios hesitated. Rios doing anything for him was a sore spot between them, and he felt awkward.

“Yea, Tyse have some manners, and take this heavy thing. I told you I wanted to pack light, geesh. Ma’am.”

“Call me Mimi, and here let me see you.” She ordered giving Elliot the idea that she is where Rios inherited his bossiness from. “My you are a handsome one.” She continued grasping him by his bi-ceps and holding him at arm’s length. “Now let me hug you home, and we’ll get into the kitchen for breakfast. Tyson mentioned that you have a penitent for Blueberry bagels, and his dad will be back any moment with fresh ones from the deli.”

Then, it was Salem’s turn to suffer her hugs and kisses as Rios stood back trying his best not to smile; he’d already earned enough of the younger man’s ire for the morning. Finally he opted to rescue him.

“Mom, mom easy on the boy. He needs the facilities, and if you squeeze him to hard well…”

“Oh dear, right down the hall on the end, Elliot, you can’t miss it. Tyson set your stuff in the corner over there while I lock up. Then we’ll go to the kitchen I made coffee.”

Salem wandered back to the small eat in kitchen noting that photographs lined the hallway walls nearly blanketing them. Some were of the city; most were of Tyson and a girl Elliot took to be his sister. They ranged chronologically from toddler age through to adult hood for the girl, but Salem’s keen eye, even with just a quick perusal, noticed the distinct absence of photos for Rios after the age of fifteen until they re-appeared after Tyse was in the Army. He’d known that Tyson had all but run away, but the absence of photographs truly put the situation into a harsh perspective. Tyson’s father clearly loved his children if he took so much time to record their lives in such careful photographs. The missing years for Tyson mirrored the missing bits of the man’s heart. Elliot shuddered, and hurried along. He was certain there were no photos of him from childhood, with the exception, possibly, of the two years he’d spent in the security and relative happiness of the singular good foster home he’d ever been assigned to. He recalled posing with the family’s two children on several occasions.

When he made it back to the kitchen he took a seat across from Rios at the oak dining table, took his hat off, and slid his chair in. Mimi set a cup of coffee in front of him, and patted his shoulder.

“Tyson said that you like it black, so black it is. You can wear the hat it’s perfectly ok.”

Relieved, Elliot put the battered cap back on his head backwards, and sipped from his cup.

“No way! Look Tyse my name’s on my cup! Look and a picture too. That’s me on my little wall. I remember when you took it. How? Wow my own cup. Thanks, for the cup and my hat and the coffee’s great too Mimi.”

“Tyson said you’re really partial to wearing it so feel free to. He told us about the mugs you had made for Christmas, so I just felt it would be a nice touch. Now, you have one too. Drink up, you must be exhausted from the drive, and Gus will be here any minute.”

“Gus?” Elliot asked looking worriedly across at Tyson.

“With the bagels, remember?” Mimi offered a bit bewildered.

“Gus. Why you fat…”

“Salem.” Rios growled in warning.

“Gus, you call your dad Gus. You had me practicing saying his name for a thousand million miles, and now you’re telling me I can call him Gus?”

“Five hundred miles. You didn’t start until North Carolina”

“Tyson you didn’t!”

“I did.”

Rios replied grinning, “He was getting pretty good at it too, mom. He was all stressed that he’d mess it up so he was an extra good study.”

“See; see how he treats me Mimi. See the stuff I have to live with on a daily basis. Seriously, Gus?”

“Did I hear someone calling my name?”

Salem nearly leapt from his chair at the sound of the man’s deep voice. It was un-cannily similar to Tyson’s. He looked across at the bigger man his mouth agape.

“Bagels for all. Blueberry for the newest Rios family member, and plain for the rest of us. Hello son, you’re looking fit.”

Tyson stood, and crossed to the counter where his father was depositing the boxes of bagels. Salem stood after Mimi stood for lack of knowing quite what else to do. Tyson and Gus shook hands, and then the elder Rios turned to Salem.

“So, I finally get to meet the little skinny ass bitch who’s been giving my son so much grief. I’m Gus, nice to meet you, Elliot.”

Salem grasped the man’s hand, and shook it as Gus dragged him into a firm embrace. The un-expected hug surprised him, and he resisted slightly. Rios’ greeting included only a handshake. Elliot’s gut hitched. Would Tyson feel jealous of him now? Gus released him and took a step back.

“He’ll grow Tyson, still has some maturing to do. You know how it works, we men don’t really fill out until we hit our late twenty’s. Doubt he’ll get any taller, but he can damn sure put on some nice muscle mass. You consider getting him some supplements or anything? I could ship them for you.”

“No, dad and he’s a little light right now. We did just get back from six weeks in the bush, and he’s not a big eater to boot.”

“Hmm, well while you’re here you’ll eat, Elliot. So just get used to the idea.”

Elliot smiled and shrugged, feeling self-conscious of the attention. Gus was looking at him like a man purchasing slaves. He was afraid that at any moment he might pry open his mouth to check his teeth. He could smell his Blueberry bagels cooking, and said a silent prayer that they’d hurry up. Gus walked around behind him, grasped his left, then his right Trapezius muscles before popping back in front of him. Then, he furrowed his brow, and pressed his right index finger against his pursed lips, and cocked his bald head to the left.

“You have a bad right shoulder?”

Elliot squinted back at the taller man. Tyson had lied about that part too. Gus was easily six foot two, and well-muscled for a man of his age. A far cry from his own five foot nine and a quarter.

“Ah, well, yea guess so, I do. Sort a knocked it out back a year ago or so in Sarajevo. Pains me a bit. Popped out twice more since then too. Tyse can pop it back in for me though so’s no big deal really. Tyse, is your dad a doctor? You didn’t tell me he was a doctor.” He hissed in a whisper over and around Gus’ left shoulder as if Gus, standing only inches away, wouldn’t hear him.

“No not a doctor, Elliot. Physical therapist, slash trainer and coach for the high school track, football and wrestling teams. Before you go I’ll give you some exercises to help strengthen up the muscles around your shoulder to help keep it from popping out anymore. Won’t be a complete fix, but it will help. Tyson, why didn’t you tell me the boy had a wonky shoulder? I could have sent you the exercises.”

“Well dad because the boy never mentioned he had a wonky shoulder.”

Gus looked from Tyson and back at Elliot, now uncomfortably caught in his lie.

“Guess it wasn’t you who popped it back, Tyse. Must have been Giddy maybe. You know me always getting things mixed up.”

“No, I know you Salem, and you do not get things mixed up. You’re a consummate liar. What gives?”

“Look Tyse remember when…”

“Bagels for everyone,” Mimi interrupted carrying a tray to the table, and motioning for the trio to be seated, “Dig in.”

Once they all sat back down again, Gus pressed Elliot for the remainder of his shoulder story.

“Dad, maybe it’s not such a great idea to tell stories. Elliot’s not keen on re-telling stuff.”

“Well, then I guess Elliot’s got a lot to learn then. First about eating, and second about sharing stories. Continue Elliot, I’m intrigued as to how you confused who pops your shoulder in for you.”

“Yes sir, well ah Gus sir. Well, we were doing recon in this little village. Not much more than a cluster of huts and bombed out two and three story buildings. Wow Mimi, I really like this spinning thing in the middle of the table.” Salem added reaching out and spinning the Lazy Susan while studying its contents, “Damned convenient device. Anyway,” he continued, still spinning the Lazy Susan gradually faster and faster. “Rios, well Tyse and me are going door to door checking for weapons and insurgents, and so far it was all pretty smooth going. Top he calls for him to scout up ahead and I get left back.”

“Stop playing with the Lazy Susan Salem. It’s not a damned toy. Mom I warned you. I told you to put it away until we left, or he’d never let the damned thing alone. Stop it Salem!”

Salem took his hand away, and sat back in his chair. He took a bite of bagel a sip of coffee and went on.

“Anyway, well right about then the shit, sorry excuse me, Mimi. Well, all hell, damn it Tyse can I just use little curse words? You did.”

“No, finish the story Elliot.”

“But you said damn, and your dad called me a little skinny ass bitch. That’s two curse words toward a house guest even. Come on give a little skinny ass bitch a break.”

“Salem do not make me…”

Gus and Mimi were both laughing aloud at the pair’s strange banter, and Elliot relaxed slightly hoping it had taken away some of Gus’ focus on his little lie.

“Fine, you fat fu… well let’s just say that things got real hot real fast…No, here’s the skinny Gus. I just, I just wanted you to know, or think that Tyse takes good care of me. You know does a good job of it. Seems, from what little I’ve heard so far, he’s told you guys a lot about me, so I figure he’s told you we didn’t exactly get off on a good foot. I just wanted you to know that’s all behind us now. We’re tight. He just, well he sold me out that’s all. But we’re grown men and I’ll forgive him maybe someday. Like when h-e-double tooth picks freezes over. Giddy never popped it back in either. I took a fall during that op, and hit hard on the lower floor on a small wall. It popped out, and I smacked it back in the way I did it in Sarajevo. That’s all, sorry. And Gus you will have to excuse me sir, because I don’t talk shop ever. Done’s done, and the only reason to go back through the pain of it again is to fix any mistakes we might have made. Sorry sir. These bagels are the best I’ve ever had Mimi, thanks.”

The group sat silently staring at Elliot who had set his bagel down, and now sat head bowed with his hands in his lap as if waiting to hear his punishment for lying. He lied a lot, and was rarely caught at it. He even lied when he didn’t need to. Lying was a simple game he liked to play, and he enjoyed the risk of being caught. It didn’t surprise him that Rios had called him on the story, but he wished the older man had not.

Gus was confused by the entire scenario. He coached boys, teen boys, and he was more than familiar with how to manage them despite often feeling as though he grossly miss-managed his own son. Elliot was a puzzle though. From what Tyson had told them the younger man had come from an extraordinarily dysfunctional family situation. Gus could tell he was holding back in an effort to be polite, and not offend or embarrass Tyson. What the learned coach read, despite Salem’s seemly submissive body language, was that the man was seething. He was angry and confused about being looked over as if he’d been up for auction, and that he didn’t like being told how things would be. The coach knew he was at risk of losing Elliot’s trust and friendship, just the way he’d lost Tyson’s, if he didn’t curb his demanding tactics. Elliot was not a man easily broken, and Gus knew that the harder he tried, the harder Elliot would fight back. It was, Gus could see, a mode of behavior deeply ingrained in the young man’s psyche. He’d miss-judged how sensitive Elliot was, and he’d over stepped his bounds.

“No apology needed Elliot. I was a bit forthright looking at you like a football scout or something worse. I’m very relieved that Tyson can take care of you, and I can rest well at night knowing that he’s in your capable hands as well. Now, that being said, forget about the stories. I can get those from Tyson, but you will eat while you are here. I won’t have you going back to that hell hole under-weight. Do you understand?”

Elliot looked up and smiled weakly across the small table at the man, “Yes sir. I’ll eat. That’s a fair bargain. Thanks. Do you guys have any milk? I love chocolate milk with my bagels, and Tyse makes it just right. And Gus, you think you might get the fat one over there to lay off a bit about the cursing. If not it’s gonna be long miserable week for me and my beleaguered verbiage.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. A Child's Bounty Bought

 

**_ Chapter Three _ **

**_ A Child’s Bounty Bought _ **

 

 

Elliot yawned and tried to stay focused on the conversation trilling around him. For the most part, it was all lost to the tired man, since none of it really pertained to him. The Rios’ were catching up on nearly two years of having not seen Tyson. After a day of trapesing around Tyson’s neighborhood, gorging on a lunch, at the corner restaurant, large enough that he’d have been able eat it for a week, followed several hours later with a dinner nearly as large in yet another local eatery, and at a minimum four trips up and down eight flights of stairs, despite his physicality, the man was beat.

The city was a dirty, noisy, crowded mess, and Elliot was about as on edge as he could get. The sidewalks teemed with throngs of pushy people, the cars honked incessantly, crossing the out of control traffic was terrifying, and through all of it he couldn’t curse or complain, let alone seem afraid of the crazy whirlpool of humanity Rios and his family had dragged into. It was mind numbing, and all Elliot wanted was five minutes peace and quiet.

He yawned again, and instead tried to focus on the television, which in an effort, he thought, to keep up with the outside noise was turned up to a load roar, and the three Rios’ hollered their conversation over it. The news lady, who Salem took a moment to notice that she had nicely sized breasts, was telling about four bodies found floating in the Hudson River sans their heads. Bodies, he was home, and he really didn’t want to hear about headless bodies floating anywhere. Bodies were for work, and not vacation. The shot switched to the weather, and a handsome gentleman took over stating that tomorrow would be in the nineties with high humidity and no breeze, making it feel more like just over one hundred. Great, he thought, at least Somalia was a dry heat. He’d sweat his balls off all day if they went tramping all over hell and back like they’d done that day.

Rios turned from his father, and noticed that Elliot was dozing. The younger man had kept a smile on his stubble cloaked face all day despite the frenetic situation surrounding him. Tyson knew Salem’s moods, and read him well. He was crashing, and Rios didn’t want that to happen. Salem could create as much or more chaos as the next man, but his true nature was one of quiet stillness. He hated noise, he hated confrontation, he hated being around too many people, and that was where he’d spent his entire day since arriving fifteen hours ago. Salem was at his core a Sniper, and Sniper’s loved to be alone in their hide with a mission to look forward to; not surrounded by a mass of milling, noisy humanity. He rolled his thick left wrist over and checked the time, 2200 hours. Typically, if he wasn’t on duty, Salem crashed hard by 2000. The man pushed himself brutally from sun up in the gym, on ruck marches, on recon missions, and the exertion took its toll. They’d hit the shower, slam a few Corona’s from the hidey hole, and Elliot would be asleep, frequently sitting up against the wall at the bottom of Tyson’s bunk, an arrangement the bigger man had finally just come to accept by 2000 hours.

“Salem, hit the shower man, go on.”

Salem stirred, yawned, and stretched as he sat up straight in the arm chair he occupied at the edge of the trio. He felt guilty for slacking a bit, but after the drive from Georgia and the long day he was really dragging.

“Don’t want to be rude.”

“Nothing rude about it, Kermit. You’re beat. It’s been a long few days; so hit it, and I’ll be in right after you. Just go easy on the water. The heater’s only a small one, ok.”

“Roger that.” He replied standing up stiffly. “Easy on the water, got it. Good night Mimi, Gus. I had a great time seeing stuff.”

After he was away down the hallway Gus went to the kitchen, and returned with two beers. He handed one to Tyson and sat back down. Mimi sat in her recliner reading a book about Bridge strategy, and watching the news. Gus turned the television down slightly, and faced his son.

“He’s limping. Limped off and on all day.”

Rios twitched a bit at the comment. His father had a way of stating information that made the comment seem to be a criticism. A remark aimed at assigning fault upon Tyson for Elliot’s limp. Then again, Rios thought, maybe it was just him being overly touchy to his father’s words. He’d certainly suffered enough under the man’s harsh tutelage before leaving home. When his father applauded him it was to the fullest, and the young man would bask in the praise. Conversely, when he fouled up, or if the elder Rios perceived that he’d fouled up, the criticism would be harsh, un-forgiving and scathing.

“It’s not my doing, dad, Christ. He came with the limp, just like the wonky shoulder, half a dozen other injuries and an attitude from hell. I’m not even gonna get into his fucked up mental state.”

“That’s not what I meant, Tyson. Just ease up ok. I train athletes. I look at how people move. It’s the force of habit. I was merely noting that he’s limping.”

Tyson sighed took a long swig of beer, and forced himself to relax. This was what he’d been dreading, the first long tense moments alone with his parents, or more accurately, alone with his father.

“Right leg, I really only know that it was caused by some kind of animal trap, like a bear trap.”

“How in hell does that happen?”

“Like he said dad, he doesn’t talk about work. He shoves the shit down somewhere so fucking deep that it’s like it never happened. Sure, he can drag it up, but it’s like pulling teeth. Gabe can get him to talk, but that’s about it.”

“How are they Tyson, Gabe and Dorrie?”

“Great mom, they said to say hello, and that you guys need to come down soon.”

“Bear trap?”

“Yea, dad, Sarajevo, I don’t have details. A mission to recon mortar emplacements went horribly wrong. Somehow in the first days of the six week op his entire team got themselves whacked. Elliot, he’s young, green, and cut off without anything, but what’s in his ruck, 170 some odd klicks behind the Serb line. Not a good situation. Not even for someone with experience. All I know for sure is that they decided, since he had to walk out, he might as well carry out his mission if he felt up to it. So, he does just that for nearly a month, calling in, or destroying Serb positions. Something like seventy-five or eighty of them. He’s living off the land, sniping guys, blowing fortifications, and wreaking havoc on the bastards.

When I got him he was only one-hundred and fifteen maybe twenty pounds, and beat to shit like I told you in my letters. But anyway, toward the end, he stumbled into some kind of trap, and it shredded his right leg up pretty good. Splintered his shin, chewed up the muscle, just what you’d figure a trap like that would do. That’s all we know. They pulled the plug, he made it back to a safe extraction point, and they sent him to us at the F.O.B., well me; and now, according to him, he’s mine, and I’m his. So I’d say we’re pretty much stuck with the skinny bastard for life.”

“It’s not good not to talk things through.”

“Mom, we all have our own ways of managing the bullshit.”

“If you’re going to curse, you should let Elliot curse.”

“He’s not cursing, mom.”

“Why?”

“Why, because I said so, mom and Salem does exactly what I tell him to do. The cursing, he’s horrible about it. I don’t know how he fits fuck into sentences, so many times the way he does, but it’s like the lazy Susan; once he starts forget it, it’s a disaster. You really need to put it away. I’m telling you mom. He’s going to get it going fast, and all of your stuff’s going to be slung around the kitchen.”

“It survived you and your sister, it will survive Elliot.”

“You’ve been warned.”

“Well anyway Tyson, what’s your plans for tomorrow?”

“Don’t know dad. Didn’t really think about it.”

“Well, why not come down to school with me. I’ve got clinics and tutoring all day for summer camp. There’s a few boys I’d like to have meet the two of you. Their seniors, and not going on to college, but the military’s a good move for them. Hell, it’ll pay for their schooling. They’re good kids, just falling between the cracks.”

Tyson looked at Gus, and tried not to laugh. When he’d first contacted his family after signing up, his father had been furious with him, subsequently ending Tyson’s attempt at reconciliation before it even got going. He’d railed about the government and policy and how warped it all was, until Tyson, out frustration, anger and hurt, had packed and left. He’d turned his life around, and it wasn’t good enough for Gus. The pain was more than the big man could bear, and he’d sworn to never try to go home again. Gabe had convinced him to forgive and forget and Tyson once again went home two years later, with better results. But, to hear his father now suggesting sending some of his players into service stunned Rios.

“That’s a switch.”

“Don’t pick a fight with your father, Tyson. I’m off to bed. If you or Elliot need anything just knock.” Mimi said standing, crossing to Tyson and kissing him on his head.

“Night mom.”

“Your mother’s right. Don’t pick a fight. So what do you say?”

Rios pondered it a bit. Down at Benning, before they’d left for Brooklynn, Elliot had worked for three days with the instructors at the Sniper range helping new shooters. Freddy Yodell, the lead instructor, praised Elliot’s skill at instructing the new men. Yodell was Salem’s hero and the praise had boosted his flagging confidence immensely. He had a true knack for explaining technique and processes. On top of that, the younger soldier seemed to really enjoy spending time teaching what he’d learned. Rios sighed and then based upon that experience took a sip of beer, and looked up at his dad.

“Sure dad, I think that’s a great idea. Elliot’s surprisingly good at communicating with the young guys. He seems, contrary to his demeanor, to actually like teaching.”

“Great, it’s settled then. While we’re there I’ll teach Elliot those shoulder exercises as well. Be up and ready to go, in work out stuff, by five. Night Tyson and thanks.”

Tyson double checked the locked front door, which both of his parents had already double checked, then marched off to shower and sleep. Elliot was sitting up on his bed reading one of the books he dragged around with him tucked away in his ruck.

“Shower ok?”

“Sure Tyse. Was in and out. You going?”

“Old man’s in there. Beer?” Rios asked extending the six pack he’d snagged from the refrigerator.

Elliot shrugged, sat up a bit, and took one. He felt better since the shower, actually awake too. Just spending ten minutes alone with only the sound of the water beating down had worked wonders to calm him down.

“What’r you reading now?” Rios snapped, stripping off his socks and jeans. For reasons he could not quite fathom, the fact that Salem read annoyed him

“Oh, _Hadji Murad,_ but in Russian. Tyannikov somehow got me a copy. It’s slow going, but I have time.”

“What the fuck’s that Kermit?”

“I had it in prison. The lady teacher, Ms. Scope, gave it to me after she found out I had some Russian. It’s a fucking really sad story by Tolstoy. This guy gave up everything Tyse, to try and get his family back. I mean everything, kissed ass and all but in the end the fuckers raped him anyway. It breaks my heart. He was a great fighter. It’s even sadder in Russian.”

Rios looked up and across the small room at Elliot. The younger man’s words had sounded strident and pained and it caught Tyson off guard. Elliot seldom showed his emotions, outside of anger, so freely, but apparently something in this _Hadji Murad_ had struck a chord. If so, Rios thought, it might just be a way to eek just a bit farther into Elliot’s head.

“You have it in English?”

“Sure, I always carry it.”

“Hmph, well Kermit maybe you should let me read it one day.”

Elliot grinned, and stood up. “Sure Tyse, anytime.”

“Great. My old man’s outta the shitter, back in ten.”

While Elliot waited for Tyson he began once again to study the dozens of trophies decorating Tyson’s boyhood room. He may have run away from home, but the room had remained his. The awards were for football, wrestling, track and academic achievements. It seemed that whatever Rios had turned his hand to he’d excelled at. All were first place awards. None boasted second or worse, and Elliot wondered if, because of the sheer amount of the items, the lesser ones had been stowed away someplace.

Tyson’s desk was there neat and clean as though he’d never left. A dictionary and Thesaurus as well as an atlas were perched in a corner held up by yet another trophy. Another award for wrestling shaped like a mug held assorted pens, markers and pencils. Dark blue comforters depicting different athletic events dressed the two twin beds which flanked the small tidy room. A window in between them looked out onto a fire escape and the grimy side street, which was really more of an alleyway, below. Salem turned his attention back to the trophies. How could one kid get so many awards? There were trophies spread around the main rooms as well. Tyson must have been an extraordinary athlete. He set a wrestling award that was nearly two feet tall back onto its perch on the crowded dresser top, when Tyson stepped through the door.

“Feel better?”

“Roger fucking that.” Rios replied tossing the towel he was dragging over his stubbled head into a corner.

Salem studied the discarded item for a moment, looked warily at Rios and then crossed, picked it up, and began to fold it as Tyson started to dress for sleep.

“The fuck’r doing, Kermit?”

“Your mom probably wouldn’t like it on the floor, Tyse.”

“My mom won’t ever know I threw it there, so put it back.”

Elliot shrugged, and dropped the towel back down. God help him if he threw a towel on the floor of their room in the barracks.

“It’s hard to believe you won all these.”

“No, not really. Not if you knew how the old man drove me like a god damned animal to do it.” Rios snapped back plopping down on his bed.

Salem continued his perusal lifting the trophies, and reading the little plates telling what the awards were for. Rios lounged back drinking his beer and watching. Telling Elliot to leave off would be for naught so he was content to let the man satisfy his curiosity. Finally Elliot sighed, and turned to him a lopsided sad smile on his face. Rios knew the look and sat up a bit straighter.

“Have another beer, Elliot, and don’t go getting all fucking morose on my aggravated ass.”

Salem did as Rios commanded, and sat down on his own bed, leaning against the wall staring across at Tyson.

“No seconds or thirds.”

Rios looked around the space, and thought about the remark. Seconds and thirds were un-acceptable in the Rios household so of course there were none to be found.

“Wasn’t allowed, seconds and thirds.”

“Seems a bit harsh.” Elliot replied quietly. Tyse was a little drunk, and he knew to be careful with his words. It didn’t take much to set Tyson off sometimes.

“Is a bit harsh. Never had a free fucking minute of my own. He micro-managed my entire childhood until I split.”

“Yea, but look at how good you were, are.” Elliot said with nearly the same strange awe he’d had in his tone when explain about Hadji Murad.

“Fuck the lot a that.”

Tyson’s disregard and discontent with his childhood hurt Elliot a bit. He’d have killed to have his life micro-managed. He have done anything to have such a cool bedroom and a desk and a window and a chance to play for trophies.

“Guess he figured he was doing things ok by you.” He finally offered meekly.

“Right, more like ok by _him_. Fucker was just living vicariously through my fucking hard work and success. Fucked his knees up, couldn’t play, so he made me do it. Fuck the lot a that. A kid needs to play now and again. Needs to be allowed seconds and thirds. Needs to be allowed to fail.”

“Failure gets you killed.” Salem replied flatly, chilling Tyson just a bit.

It was true for the younger man, and that hurt Tyson. Salem hadn’t a choice in the matter either, but if he failed he paid far more dearly than Tyson even wanted to think about. The conversation in camp before they’d come on leave, when Elliot had told them his story, still haunted him.

“I never had a trophy.” Elliot finally said several long tense moments later. “Never even had a chance to win one. You got to play. You had to play to win ‘em.”

He stood up and started looking at the awards again after taking another beer.

“That shit’s not playing, Salem. That kinda of pressure isn’t a game. It’s for real. I mean play. Like fucking Tag, or Gi Joes, or Hide ‘n Seek, fun stuff. I never got to play for just fun.”

“Me neither. Didn’t even know how. The head docs were always fussing about it, and the foster parents always bitched that I wouldn’t play with the other kids. Guess I just didn’t get it. Was happy just to beat the shit outta anyone who got into my space. You micro-manage me you know. Guess you got that from your pop.”

Rios considered the remark. Elliot seemed content trying to memorize or catalogue all of the trophies so Rios figured they’d be up for a while. He did over manage men. Not just Elliot either. He liked to consider it attention to detail, but Elliot had proven to be a bit of a different partner. He needed to be kept in line; he needed to be set on point, and told to stay there. He almost craved it. Rios couldn’t count the times they’d nearly come to blows over it, had come to blows over it. On the one hand Elliot railed against such tight control, but conversely he fucked stuff up seemingly just to get Rios to clamp down on him.

“Yea, I do, but you ask for it you manipulative fuck.”

Salem chuckled, and put a football trophy back in its place.

“I know. It’s just my dysfunctional nature poking through. They need to be dusted and polished.”

“That ain’t happening, Kermit.”

Salem sat back down on his bed, and seemed suddenly withdrawn, but nearly ready to settle down. Rios took another beer, and studied him. He closed his eyes tight against the vision of Salem, the boy, slouched not on a comfortable little bed in a nice room, but instead huddled, terrified in a filthy closet while his father and his drug addled friends partied. Salem’s voice, nearly a whisper, pulled him back from the awful vision.

“Can I have one?”

Tyse sat up straighter, but before he could reply Elliot leapt up, and began pacing to and fro agitatedly, as he was prone to doing when upset.

“Sorry, I mean I _know_ you have to _earn_ them Tyse, I know that, but I’ve earned things. I never maybe caught a touchdown, or stole a base, or hit the most home runs, or had the most rushing yards, or the fastest 440, or threw a shot put the farthest in the county, or jumped the farthest, or sacked the most guys, or scored the highest on a test, or had the most takedowns wrestling, but I’ve done good stuff. I studied hard in prison, and despite how fucked up it was I got my high school diploma. Not a GED Tyse, but a real diploma, and that’s with dropping out when I was only in like sixth grade, if that. I have a year, a whole year of college credits. A perfect four point zero grade point average too. I made it through basic, and all of that stuff, and it’s not my fault that I never got to play. It’s not and I always wanted a real trophy, and if nothing else, Tyse, I haven’t cursed all day. I ate all of my lunch food. I didn’t get smacked by a taxi, or fall under the subway train. I ate all of my supper, and I didn’t use up the hot water. Just one and I swear I’ll polish it, and keep it safe forever. Fuck, I’ll shine all of them once a year ‘cause even if you’re not I’m damned fucking proud of you.”

Tyse was a bit stunned by the outburst. Elliot sat back on the edge of the bed staring expectantly at him. He tore at the label on his beer bottle with his thumb mail, and bounced his left foot on his toes not, Rios knew, not with impatience, but nerves. He knew it had cost Salem to make his request. He never asked for or expected anything to come to him unless he’d suffered for it.

“S’not like you don’t have plenty.” He finally pouted.

Rios chuckled lightly, smiled and nodded.

“Sure Ellie, pick anyone you’d like. You damn sure have earned it.”

Salem stood, and started looking over the trophies once again. It had to be a special one. It couldn’t be too large, or he’d not be able to tote it safely. It needed to be for a special event. Something he thought that despite his bitterness Tyson felt proud of. Most were the run of the mil trophy. A guy in the middle of performing a move from the subject sport. One stood out though. It was for wrestling. It stood only six inches tall, far smaller than any of the others, and had a white marble replica of the statue _The Dying Gaul_ set upon a one inch thick, shiny black circle of marble with vibrant blood red veins coursing through it.

Why they’d chosen that particular figure confused him somewhat, because the Gaul lies in defeat. He shrugged the thought away, he understood perfectly why it had been chose and he respected who ever had done it. The semi-circular, tarnished bronze label noted that Tyson Guxti Rios, aged ten won it at an amateur, national event held in Wisconsin in the age group fourteen to sixteen. It was, in Salem’s eyes, the finest trophy, because of its pained humility. Something about that particular statue had always torn at his heart. The first time he’d seen it, in prison during a Humanities lesson, he’d cried. He took it from the shelf, blew the dust off, and turned to Rios.

“This is the one. It’s the _Dying Gaul_. A copy of a third century statue. It’s wonderful.”

Rios stood and crossed to him. He reached out, and touched the small trophy somewhat reverently. He’d wrestled at a higher age group because of his size, but his ferocity, maturity and attention to detail and technique catapulted him into the finals, and into his first nationally ranked first place finish despite the hefty challenge. He recalled the fervor over the design of the trophy as well. Many were angry over the depiction of a loser, a dying man as representative of the winners. Rios hadn’t cared. It was just another meet under his belt, another trophy, another pat on the head from his father and another reason for the man to press him ever harder to excel.

“I cried the first time I saw a slide of him in prison in Humanities class. It’s ok to have it?”

“It’s yours Ellie. It was a good meet. I wrestled up an age group or more maybe at the last minute, because I was big and still swept it. Top ranked players too. It was a proud day, although at the time I think I pretty much just mostly resented it. I pretty much hated all of it. Nobody liked the little trophies though. They pitched a real bitch. Some didn’t even take them.”

“Sure, Tyse, he’s defeated, but look, he’s dying with such beauty and grace such humility and valor. It’s to remind you _how_ to lose, how things would be, should be if you’re defeated, and how you should hold, comport, yourself I death. It’s beautiful. I’ll take great care of it. Thank you.”

Rios smiled, once again baffled by the uncharted depth of Elliot Salem. He’d never figured out the little trophy. He’d not even known it was a copy of a famous work. He hadn’t cared. Elliot, finally contented, turned down his covers, and slipped under still gaping at his new treasure. Rios followed suit after telling him the plans for the morning, and turned off the light. Just as he was slipping off Salem’s voice, only a hoarse emotional whisper roused him.

 _I see before me the gladiator lie_  
He leans upon his hand—his manly brow  
Consents to death, but conquers agony,  
And his drooped head sinks gradually low—  
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow  
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one…

“It’s Byron, from [_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Childe_Harold%27s_Pilgrimage) you should read that one too.”

“Is there no end of the depth of your strangeness, Elliot?”

“Nope, night Tyse. Love you.”

Rios, lying on his left side, looked over after a short time, and in the inky light flitting through the old Venetian blinds cloaking his bedroom window, he saw Salem curled on his right side, the little trophy clutched tightly in his left hand crushed against his chest, sound asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
